Title: A Time To Heal - [By Genise A. Mora]
Rating: PG-13 - for some rough language and SLIGHT violence
Disclaimer: The brilliant TV show ER belongs to NBC and all its respective entities, and I have not created, nor do I own, the characters from the show [Luka, Abby, Dr. Lewis, Weaver, etc.]. No copyright infringement intended.
Classification: Luka/Abby drama
Keywords: Luke/Abby Drama
Spoilers: season 8 - up to SEVEN SINNERS
Summary: After Luka's returned from Bosnia, Abby is brutally attacked by her neighbor's abusive husband, forcing Luka to address his feelings on their relationship. Luka / Abby relationship. Please R&R
Personal note: This is my very FIRST ER fan fic. I don't exactly know too much about the whole Luka / Abby relationship [please don't hate me!] but I'm becoming a regular fan now.
Feedback: VERY welcome. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE R&R.
E-mail: rockenpnay@yahoo.com -- feel free to email me about my stories
AIM: rockenpnay
A Time To Heal - [By Genise A. Mora]
Anger was the only thing I knew, and it's rare for me, Luka Kovac, to ever be mad enough that I would want to kill.
I watch as the medics escort her in, and I'm basically paralyzed as I stand there in the hallway, nurses and doctors wheeling patients and maneuvering themselves around me while I am rooted to the spot. She's walking by herself, with no support from the medics, with that willful spirit that I know so well. The only way that I even realized it was her was by way she walked, with her head held high and her eyes so full with pride that just the slightest show of sympathy would make her lash out in your direction.
"Luka?" She asks me, studying my face as if I'm the one who's just been beaten up. I snap out of my trance-like state, brought back to the busy world of the ER.
"Abby, my God, are you okay?" I ask, gently touching her chin to study her face. She brushes my hand away, and I can tell she's embarrassed by my scrutiny. "Here, let's go get a room." I move aside to let her go first and follow her in to the nearest available room.
She sits on the hospital bed, bloody and beaten. I still can't believe it. I left her to go to Bosnia for two months, where I'd seen so many forms of terror and blood that you'd think I'd be immune to it all. By just seeing her beaten face, these feelings inside of me bubble up, feelings I'd never felt in Bosnia.
Her face is beaten up considerably, her right eye swollen and the skin turning purple. Neither of us say anything besides the necessary comments. Dr. Lewis comes in, and her face contorts with the shock that I'd been feeling but had successfully been able to hide. She studies Abby's wounds after a while, and at the mention of running a rape kit I feel nauseated and need to get out of there. I leave the two alone, it seems proper that Dr. Lewis should be the one testing Abby, and go on my rounds.
Dr. Lewis comes out of Abby's room a couple of minutes later and I ask her, "was she..." I can't even finish, the word seems to vulgar and vile on my tongue.
She understands what I mean and shakes her head. "No."
I sigh with relief, thankful to God that, while having been violated in such a horrible manner, she hadn't been ultimately defiled. That would have shattered her. "Cover my rounds for a while, will you?" I ask, pulling off my lab coat. I need to get some fresh air. Susan's surprised, as I would have been, but after a little pressing she agrees to do it.
I leave the hospital as fast as I can, my black coat guarding me from the chill of the night. I need to walk, need to get my legs moving and fresh air pumping into my lungs. I'm afraid if I stay there, I'll want to hold her, comfort her, and with our recent history, I'm not quite sure if that's the best thing for either of us.
So, here I am, a doctor ditching his shift to take a walk in the cold. I'm such a prick to Susan, but she'll be able to handle everything fine. Two months in Bosnia, and you feel like you're ready for anything that comes your way in a U.S. ER, but not when it involves someone close to you.
I see the bar's title as if it were a light guiding me. Booze and billiards. It exudes tackiness, a neon sign posted at its window that doesn't fit with the quaint stores that line up on both sides of it. The name is familiar, and I recall Abby mentioning it absently to herself when her neighbor's abusive husband came to the hospital looking for her. My hands clench tightly in my pockets and I cross the street towards the bar.
The bar's temperature is a nice change, but it doesn't matter because the anger that pumps through my veins provides me with enough adrenaline to fight off the cold. I peer into the bar, careful to remain in the shadows, and that's when I see him. That arrogant son of a bitch, playing billiards and grinning as if he hadn't severely beaten two women earlier that day.
That's when I move out of the shadows. The grin fades immediately from his face; he recognizes me, he knows what I'm going to do. Like a wimp, the bastard edges away, claiming it isn't his fault, that he loved his wife and he hadn't meant to hurt Abby. Before I know it, I'm punching him, yelling at him to punch me back, yet he continues to whine and beg me to stop. I guess it's not as much fun as he thought, beating someone up, when you're the on receiving the beating.
I pin him against the pool table, "you touch her again and I'll kill you." I hiss at him, gripping the collar of his shirt so tightly that my knuckles have turned white. With that, I punch him one last time and fling him away. I feel drained, all the anger having been released on him, and I'm breathing a bit heavily. I move away from him and leave. No one tries to stop me.
When I wake up the next morning, the events of the previous night return to me. I'm in my bed, alone. It's been that way ever since Nicole and I broke up. Abby never liked her, and I knew I was just pouring salt on her wounds by persuading Weaver to hire Nicole at the hospital.
I need to see her, especially before I go to work. I could have lost her that night, and that's what terrifies me the most. I open the drawer of my nightstand and pull out a framed photo of my wife and daughter. Both were taken away from me abruptly, tragically, murdered. Fate had dealt me an evil card then, and ever since then I've had a difficult time opening myself up to people. I remain distracted and even cold, trying to convince myself that I don't need anyone, but knowing that I could have lost Abby last night, that the bastard could have easily killed her, scares me shitless.
I get dressed quickly, showing and brushing my teeth mechanically. I pull on a pair of gray slacks and a yellow dress shirt. I stand in front of my closet for a moment, just looking at my ties. I have millions of ties, of every design and color you can think of. I spot the greenish silver tie Abby bought for me a while back, an impulsive gesture that had surprised both of us. Impulsively, I put it on, feeling a bit stupid yet wanting to do everything to make her happy.
I take a cab over to Susan's home, knowing that's where Abby would be. She answers the door, her right eye still dark, but the swelling has gone down a little bit. I hand her the brown paper bag, having stopped at the bagel shop to pick something up, as I enter the house.
"How are you doing?" I ask, not really knowing the right thing to say. Before her - attack- we'd barely spoken to each other after I'd arrived, and that was only to discuss things at the hospital.
"I'm still alive, aren't I?" She said, yet her sarcasm lacked its usually zest. She plops down onto Susan's couch, motioning for me to sit opposite of her. "What are you doing here?"
"I just wanted to check up on you. You know, see how you were doing," I reply. That's when I see it, the first glimmer of true hurt in her eyes. She's been holding her chin up proudly, but now I can see through it. She knows it too, and her eyes begin to shed some of the tears that she'd refused to cry. Until now.
I move next to her, holding her in my arms as she sobs into my crisp yellow shirt. Her nails dig into my back, but it's healthy to let her cry. I rub her back soothingly, knowing that it would take time for her to heal, but that I would be there with her. We'd spent all this time growing apart, but we'd get through this together.
Rating: PG-13 - for some rough language and SLIGHT violence
Disclaimer: The brilliant TV show ER belongs to NBC and all its respective entities, and I have not created, nor do I own, the characters from the show [Luka, Abby, Dr. Lewis, Weaver, etc.]. No copyright infringement intended.
Classification: Luka/Abby drama
Keywords: Luke/Abby Drama
Spoilers: season 8 - up to SEVEN SINNERS
Summary: After Luka's returned from Bosnia, Abby is brutally attacked by her neighbor's abusive husband, forcing Luka to address his feelings on their relationship. Luka / Abby relationship. Please R&R
Personal note: This is my very FIRST ER fan fic. I don't exactly know too much about the whole Luka / Abby relationship [please don't hate me!] but I'm becoming a regular fan now.
Feedback: VERY welcome. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE R&R.
E-mail: rockenpnay@yahoo.com -- feel free to email me about my stories
AIM: rockenpnay
A Time To Heal - [By Genise A. Mora]
Anger was the only thing I knew, and it's rare for me, Luka Kovac, to ever be mad enough that I would want to kill.
I watch as the medics escort her in, and I'm basically paralyzed as I stand there in the hallway, nurses and doctors wheeling patients and maneuvering themselves around me while I am rooted to the spot. She's walking by herself, with no support from the medics, with that willful spirit that I know so well. The only way that I even realized it was her was by way she walked, with her head held high and her eyes so full with pride that just the slightest show of sympathy would make her lash out in your direction.
"Luka?" She asks me, studying my face as if I'm the one who's just been beaten up. I snap out of my trance-like state, brought back to the busy world of the ER.
"Abby, my God, are you okay?" I ask, gently touching her chin to study her face. She brushes my hand away, and I can tell she's embarrassed by my scrutiny. "Here, let's go get a room." I move aside to let her go first and follow her in to the nearest available room.
She sits on the hospital bed, bloody and beaten. I still can't believe it. I left her to go to Bosnia for two months, where I'd seen so many forms of terror and blood that you'd think I'd be immune to it all. By just seeing her beaten face, these feelings inside of me bubble up, feelings I'd never felt in Bosnia.
Her face is beaten up considerably, her right eye swollen and the skin turning purple. Neither of us say anything besides the necessary comments. Dr. Lewis comes in, and her face contorts with the shock that I'd been feeling but had successfully been able to hide. She studies Abby's wounds after a while, and at the mention of running a rape kit I feel nauseated and need to get out of there. I leave the two alone, it seems proper that Dr. Lewis should be the one testing Abby, and go on my rounds.
Dr. Lewis comes out of Abby's room a couple of minutes later and I ask her, "was she..." I can't even finish, the word seems to vulgar and vile on my tongue.
She understands what I mean and shakes her head. "No."
I sigh with relief, thankful to God that, while having been violated in such a horrible manner, she hadn't been ultimately defiled. That would have shattered her. "Cover my rounds for a while, will you?" I ask, pulling off my lab coat. I need to get some fresh air. Susan's surprised, as I would have been, but after a little pressing she agrees to do it.
I leave the hospital as fast as I can, my black coat guarding me from the chill of the night. I need to walk, need to get my legs moving and fresh air pumping into my lungs. I'm afraid if I stay there, I'll want to hold her, comfort her, and with our recent history, I'm not quite sure if that's the best thing for either of us.
So, here I am, a doctor ditching his shift to take a walk in the cold. I'm such a prick to Susan, but she'll be able to handle everything fine. Two months in Bosnia, and you feel like you're ready for anything that comes your way in a U.S. ER, but not when it involves someone close to you.
I see the bar's title as if it were a light guiding me. Booze and billiards. It exudes tackiness, a neon sign posted at its window that doesn't fit with the quaint stores that line up on both sides of it. The name is familiar, and I recall Abby mentioning it absently to herself when her neighbor's abusive husband came to the hospital looking for her. My hands clench tightly in my pockets and I cross the street towards the bar.
The bar's temperature is a nice change, but it doesn't matter because the anger that pumps through my veins provides me with enough adrenaline to fight off the cold. I peer into the bar, careful to remain in the shadows, and that's when I see him. That arrogant son of a bitch, playing billiards and grinning as if he hadn't severely beaten two women earlier that day.
That's when I move out of the shadows. The grin fades immediately from his face; he recognizes me, he knows what I'm going to do. Like a wimp, the bastard edges away, claiming it isn't his fault, that he loved his wife and he hadn't meant to hurt Abby. Before I know it, I'm punching him, yelling at him to punch me back, yet he continues to whine and beg me to stop. I guess it's not as much fun as he thought, beating someone up, when you're the on receiving the beating.
I pin him against the pool table, "you touch her again and I'll kill you." I hiss at him, gripping the collar of his shirt so tightly that my knuckles have turned white. With that, I punch him one last time and fling him away. I feel drained, all the anger having been released on him, and I'm breathing a bit heavily. I move away from him and leave. No one tries to stop me.
When I wake up the next morning, the events of the previous night return to me. I'm in my bed, alone. It's been that way ever since Nicole and I broke up. Abby never liked her, and I knew I was just pouring salt on her wounds by persuading Weaver to hire Nicole at the hospital.
I need to see her, especially before I go to work. I could have lost her that night, and that's what terrifies me the most. I open the drawer of my nightstand and pull out a framed photo of my wife and daughter. Both were taken away from me abruptly, tragically, murdered. Fate had dealt me an evil card then, and ever since then I've had a difficult time opening myself up to people. I remain distracted and even cold, trying to convince myself that I don't need anyone, but knowing that I could have lost Abby last night, that the bastard could have easily killed her, scares me shitless.
I get dressed quickly, showing and brushing my teeth mechanically. I pull on a pair of gray slacks and a yellow dress shirt. I stand in front of my closet for a moment, just looking at my ties. I have millions of ties, of every design and color you can think of. I spot the greenish silver tie Abby bought for me a while back, an impulsive gesture that had surprised both of us. Impulsively, I put it on, feeling a bit stupid yet wanting to do everything to make her happy.
I take a cab over to Susan's home, knowing that's where Abby would be. She answers the door, her right eye still dark, but the swelling has gone down a little bit. I hand her the brown paper bag, having stopped at the bagel shop to pick something up, as I enter the house.
"How are you doing?" I ask, not really knowing the right thing to say. Before her - attack- we'd barely spoken to each other after I'd arrived, and that was only to discuss things at the hospital.
"I'm still alive, aren't I?" She said, yet her sarcasm lacked its usually zest. She plops down onto Susan's couch, motioning for me to sit opposite of her. "What are you doing here?"
"I just wanted to check up on you. You know, see how you were doing," I reply. That's when I see it, the first glimmer of true hurt in her eyes. She's been holding her chin up proudly, but now I can see through it. She knows it too, and her eyes begin to shed some of the tears that she'd refused to cry. Until now.
I move next to her, holding her in my arms as she sobs into my crisp yellow shirt. Her nails dig into my back, but it's healthy to let her cry. I rub her back soothingly, knowing that it would take time for her to heal, but that I would be there with her. We'd spent all this time growing apart, but we'd get through this together.